Tapestry
by EmberDragon
Summary: Life events make us what we are, and those of Denethor and Finduilas were no exception. This story follows closely the events that led to their tragic demise. PG-13 just to be safe.
1. A Letter Found, A Letter Received

**Disclaimer**: None of the characters/places etc. in this fic belong to us. We are making no profit with this story.

**Author's Note**: Hi, we're Galueth and EmberDragon, the joint authors of this fan fiction, "Tapestry". We chose to write about these events because it's a part of Tolkien that isn't explored in detail, and we were curious to fill in the gaps. It hasn't been written about as much as some of the others, and the characters are less often seen in much fan fiction.

Because there was so much left to explore, we took advantage of it, exploring it as much as possible, though always striving to keep all in character from what little Tolkien left us. We used both book and movie to help fill in gaps, while still trying to keep the feel of Tolkien's work, and where we had neither book nor film, we used our own imagination, though still with the mindset of staying as faithful to Tolkien's spirit as possible.

We wrote this for fun, and foremost for our own enjoyment and entertainment, but we hope that others can take enjoyment from it as well, so we have decided to upload it for all to see.

This is an AU fic to stay on the safe side. Still, we hope you enjoy reading – reviews are always welcomed!

--Galueth and EmberDragon

**Tapestry**

**A Lord of the Rings Fan Fiction**

**Chapter One: A Letter Found, A Letter Received**

Even when a story is over, it still has a beginning. It is up to those who desire, those who strive after what many would leave untouched, to reveal these beginnings. For if we cannot learn from the lessons of the past, there is little hope for the future. And thus we must read them from beginning to end.

I am about to begin my own story. As you read this, you are reading the penmanship of Barahir, grandson of Faramir, Prince of Ithilien and Steward of Gondor. It is the story of his father, Lord Denethor of Minas Tirith, and his mother, Lady Finduilas of Dol Amroth, which I shall tell. But although this is their tale, there are other people's tales, others' lives, woven in to create a wonderful tapestry. I, too, am a part of this tapestry. In order to understand this story, we must journey before Faramir's time. Whilst searching the archives of Minas Tirith, I came across a letter, yellowed by time and crumpled by age. It was that letter that inspired me to write this tale.

And even as I hold this parchment in my hand, I can feel its age diminish. Every stain, every mark disappears, and it regains the majesty it had all those years ago. And now it is held in the hand of somebody quite different...

_My Lord,_

_Greetings to you from Minas Tirith. I send you my most warm tidings from the White City, and from the Steward. I hope and trust that this letter finds you well. I would like to offer my most sincere thanks for your hospitality in allowing me sanctuary in your home. I find myself needing a retreat from civic duty, and I am told by citizens here that at one time called Dol Amroth home, that it's beauty and serenity is unparalleled, and thus I am greatly looking forward to setting my own eyes on your fair country._

_I do not know how long I shall be staying with you, but I shall most humbly accept your offer to stay as long as I would require. And that brings me to another topic. I would like to thank you for your kind letter. I was very glad to read it and to hear that I shall be a guest in your home. There are many things that I am looking forward to, peace and quiet chief among them._

_Send my warmest greetings to all in your household. I eagerly await meeting your children. You have a son and a daughter - is that not so? I am certain they possess the same noble attributes as their father._

_Well, here, my lord, I must close. I thank you again for your warm invitation, and shall be arriving within a week's time when you hold this in your hands. Until then, may peace be upon you and your family._

_Denethor_

-------------------------------------------

"Come."

"Yes, my lord?"

Adrahil looked up from his letter and smiled slightly, "Yes, would you fetch my daughter for me? I must see her at once."

"Of course, my lord." Bowing to him, the servant exited the hall.

-------------------------------------------

Feeling a cool blast of air, she pulled her heavy quilt closer about her neck. She reclined on her side, her head resting in her left hand, her right gently turning the pages in the book she was reading.

A large fire glowed across the room, providing the extra warmth and light that the cold, winter day so quickly sapped. It hissed and popped, sending embers floating up the chimney. Many candles were also set about the room, all of soothing hues, blues and sea greens. They were held in place by many magnificent candelabras, set in various locations about the large room.

Finduilas felt utter contentment, warmth and safety, caring not if her life ever changed. She was perfectly happy. She smiled to herself, as she read this old book of poetry. These were such marvelous lines. Often she would lose herself in her books she so loved, many times, causing her to be late for dinner, to her father's disapproval. Often he would tease, saying, "The end of the age could come, and Finduilas would still be with her nose in a book!"

Just then, something fell on the page before her, but just as it landed, it disappeared. Her brow creased in confusion, but then looking at the page more closely, she saw a tiny wet spot where the object had landed. Looking up, she cast her glance about her room, searching for the source of this phenomenon, and looking over to her window, she smiled.

She abandoned her book, holding her quilt about her slender frame and sat down in her window seat, resting her back against the wall. She smiled to herself, and laughed slightly at the sight before her.

"Father must see this," she said to herself.

It was a sight indeed. It was snowing. It had been ages since Finduilas had seen it snow, for it was a rare occurrence in Dol Amroth.

_I must have been six years old the last time it snowed. Yes…that was it…mother was still alive then…_

Finduilas brought her knees to her chest, pulling her blanket tighter about herself and smiled. This sight…it never failed to capture her, but today, with gentle white flakes falling from the sky, it did much more so. It was beautiful.

She reached out her hand, allowing several of the small white flakes to fall upon it, melting instantly when they came in contact with her warmth. Several of them blew past her face and further into her room, being carried so far as her bed and she smiled. _It was a snowflake._

She did not keep her glance inside long, for the sea beckoned to her. The waves crashed on the shore below, the gentle roar of the sea ever in her ears. It calmed her, like nothing else did. She could not keep her glance from it. If it was in sight, from wherever she was, she would watch it, as if she were afraid she would one day forget what it looked like.

She closed her eyes in utter bliss, leaning her head back, resting it on the stone wall, just taking in the sound, that marvelous, calming sound.

"My lady?" a muffled voice called, knocking gently on her door.

She opened her eyes, looking over to it, "Yes? Come in."

A messenger appeared in her room, and she smiled to him as he bowed before her.

"My lady," he began, and then rose off the floor, "Your father wishes to speak with you. He awaits you in the great hall."

She rose, and draped her blanket on her bed, "Very well." Finduilas walked over to him and grasped his forearm, smiling sweetly, "Thank you."

He nodded his head to her, "You are most welcome, my lady."

She walked over by her door, grasping a rich, navy cloak that hung in her wardrobe and tied it about her neck, needing a new source of warmth, "Did he say what it was about?"

"He did not, my lady."

Finduilas nodded, and opening the door she stepped out into the corridor, the servant following behind her. He closed the door to her room, and bowing to her, he left her alone.

Walking down the hallway, she thought of the beautiful sight she had just seen.

_It's a shame. It's so cold out, I cannot enjoy it as I like. But…_she smiled to herself, _cold weather means warm soup with freshly baked bread for dinner. _No sooner had she thought this than she began to smell its wonderful aroma. _Mmm…beef stew with herbs… and something equally divine for dessert, no doubt. I cannot wait!_

Finally coming to her father's great hall, she knocked upon it, and hearing his voice bid her enter, she opened it.

Seeing his daughter, Adrahil smiled and rose from his seat, "Come, my dear, join me," he said motioning to an empty chair.

Finduilas smiled in return and walked over to him. She grasped his forearms, kissing him on either of his cheeks, "Father, you must see it! It's snowing!"

He laughed gently. His daughter had always been carefree. They were both seated, and he replied, "Is it? I shall make a point to see for myself!"

They made themselves comfortable by the roaring fire, Adrahil asking, "Would you like anything to drink, my dear? Ale? Wine?"

Finduilas said in pleasure, "Ale would be lovely."

Her father rose, taking a mug from the nearby tray, and poured it full. "My dear, I have received a letter today."

He handed her the mug, as she took it from him, "Is that what you wish to discuss?"

"Aye, it is." She took a sip of her drink as he explained further, holding the letter up before her eyes, "From Minas Tirith."

Her eyes widened as she took in her drink and swallowing what was in her mouth, she asked, "From lord Ecthelion?"

"No…from his son, Denethor."

She was rather surprised, "Oh?"

"Yes," he said, reclining back in his chair. "He is to come to Dol Amroth in a week's time."

"On what business?"

Adrahil shook his head, "None, my dear. He is coming for a friendly visit. He says he wishes to rest from the rigors and stresses in the City."

Finduilas smiled, "Then he has chosen the perfect spot."

He laughed gently, "Indeed he has." He mused a moment before going on, "But we have preparations to make. He will be the Steward of our land one day, and we would be amiss if we did not welcome him properly."

"He shall be, father. All shall be done to make our guest feel at home. You need not worry of that." She smiled. "How long will he be staying with us?" she added, taking another sip of her ale.

Adrahil held the letter up to his face, scanning it with his eyes, "I do not know," he mused. "He is not clear about that, but he shall be welcome here as long as he desires to stay."

Finduilas smiled, "Indeed he shall." She thought a moment and continued, "A week's time, then?"

He nodded, "Lord Denethor shall arrive a week from today."

Finduilas rose from her seat, and leaning down to her father she gave him a kiss on his cheek, "Then I had better get busy. I shall see to it that he is welcomed in a fashion that would rival Minas Tirith itself!"

Adrahil laughed, taking her hand and kissing it, "I have no doubt you will, Finduilas."

"Do you require anything else, father?" she asked, smiling.

Her father shook his head, "No, that will be all." He paused, and continued, "Just see to it you are not late for meals whilst our noble guest is here. What a reflection that would be on me!" he teased.

She playfully jerked her hand from his, feigning a glance of offence, "I shall do my best, my lord."

He laughed in response. "Go on!" he motioned with his hand. He shouted, faking disapproval, "Be gone with you!"

Finduilas laughed merrily as she scurried out of the hall, and turning to her father one last time, she flashed him a playful smile. Leaving him alone, she began to make preparations for their noble visitor.


	2. A Visitor from the City

For the disclaimer, see the first chapter.

**Chapter Two: A Visitor from the City**

Denethor once again read the letter he held before him, and smiled as the words echoed through his mind. Behind him stood the great city of Minas Tirith, dominating the landscape, the White Tower a brilliant spire, almost blinding to the naked eye. Although knowing his father would disapprove, he was glad to be leaving it behind. There were too many memories there; many which he would have liked to forget. Setting out on the long road to Dol Amroth, he had found a peace he had never experienced, and a freedom he never knew existed. He turned to his accompanier.

"I feel like the kings of old," he said, a smile growing on his lips, "and although my father would not have it so, I feel less the son of a Steward, and more a bird in the sky." His companion laughed heartily in response. The two had known each other for many years, despite their differing ranks.

"My Lord," he said, "_I_ would have it so. This journey is well-deserved." Denethor nodded.

"Yes," he said thoughtfully, "and it intrigues me." He paused for a moment, glancing to the road ahead. "Tell me," he continued, "what have you heard of Adrahil's daughter?"

"Only what many have," his companion replied, shrugging his shoulders. He gave his horse a slight tug on the reins. "It is said that she is most fair, and kind of heart. But as to her true nature...I cannot tell you, my Lord."

"I see," said Denethor, contemplating this answer. "Well, I have many curiosities about Dol Amroth. I think this trip may provide more than I had originally planned."

--------------------------------------

"What of this room, my lady?"

"No, no," Finduilas replied contemplatively, her left arm about her waist, her right holding her chin. "No, this will not do. It is too dark." Pressing her lips together, she thought a moment, and looked out of the room. "Here."

She walked out of the room and down the hallway, and coming to the room immediately before her own, she gasped the handle and pushed it open. "Yes," she smiled, letting out a deep breath, "This is much better. You could not even see the sea from that other room!" She turned to the servant, "That just would not do, would it?"

He smiled, "Indeed not, my lady."

She placed her hands to her lower back, and turned to face the window, "Lord Denethor _must _see the sea." Looking about the room, she frowned slightly. "But this dust will not do." Turning back to the servant she asked, "Will you see to it that this room is thoroughly cleaned? Lord Denethor shall be Steward one day, and we cannot have him in an untidy room. We shall also require new bed linens, the curtains cleaned, new candles, clean the fireplace as well…and anything else that you see."

"Of course, my lady. I shall see to it."

She smiled, "Good." Walking out of the room, she gasped his forearm as she passed, "Thank you."

Finduilas hurriedly made her way down the hall, her feet barely touching the floor as she darted about, preparing for their noble lord's arrival. It would be three days now before he arrived at the house, and she would not have him made to feel unwelcome.

She wondered about this man. She had been rather stunned when her father had informed her that it was Denethor, not Ecthelion, who had written to them. The Steward was well loved throughout all of Gondor, seen as a wise ruler and a man of firm conviction. Her father thought well of him, she knew, but never had he mentioned his son to her.

"Yes, my lady! What would you require?" An old, hearty voice asked.

Finduilas laughed, leaning her elbows on the kitchen table, "I should require a most excellent feast! Can you oblige?"

The cook replied, smiling, "And when do I not create feasts that make the mouth rejoice?"

She chuckled, "Never! But it is especially important, my friend. We are to have a special guest."

"Oh? And who would that be?" he asked, kneading some dough for his renowned bread.

"Lord Denethor of Minas Tirith."

His eyes widened slightly, "Truly?"

She nodded her head, still resting in her hands. "Well, then," he dusted his hands, wiping them on his apron, "it shall be done, my lady."

Finduilas walked over to him, and taking his forearm, she pulled him slightly downward and gave him a gentle kiss on his cheek, "Thank you."

"Of course, little one. Go on!" He playfully banished her, "I cannot work with such a distraction!"

She laughed cheerfully, and exited the kitchen to continue her preparations.

--------------------------------------

"Who comes here?"

"Lord Denethor of Minas Tirith!" a voice called, "Open the gate!"

Finduilas shot up off her bed, abandoning her book. She rushed to her window seat, her eyes scanning the ground below for a first glimpse of their noble visitor. Stamping her feet impatiently, she looked about, seeing no-one. She was surprised that he came with no great host or company…all she saw were two horses, with richly adorned saddles, befitting the beats of the House of the Steward.

Finduilas then heard her father's voice, greeting the two visitors. She did not hear all that he said, but only heard portions of it.

"…how was…journey?"

"It was fine, thank you."

Was this his voice that she heard? Was this lord Denethor? It was different than the first she heard. It was very faint, its true character lost in the wind and the waves that sounded all about them below. Something about this voice intrigued her. It sounded harsh and gruff, but yet a playfulness lay inside that brought a smile to her face.

Finduilas knew not how long she stood there, listening at the window, but soon, she realized that she no longer heard the voices she had that had echoed below. Just as she thought this, she heard her father call to her from down the stairs.

Finduilas straightened her dress as she scurried to the door, and leaving it cracked open behind her, she hurriedly made her way down the hallway, her pace causing the many candles to flicker as she passed.

She ran lightly down the great flight of steps, and just as she was about to step from the final stair, she cast her glance upward and froze. Finduilas quickly stepped back, taking shelter against the wall of the stair. She carefully peeked around it, and saw her father speaking with a man, tall and noble. A smile was on his face, his dark hair shorn at his shoulders. Servants came, taking his rich, fur-lined cloak, and he removed his gloves from his large hands. Another wonder she also saw. A great white horn hung, shining, from a baldric near his waist. It was adorned with gold on each end, and bore a tip of pure silver.

So that is lord Denethor… 

"Finduilas!"

"Yes, father, I'm coming!" She appeared from behind the stairs, and walked to them, concealing the fact she had been watching them in secret.

Just as she spoke, Denethor turned to look at her. His smile slowly faded into a look of sheer wonder. _Younger than I would have imagined…_

"Lord Denethor, may I present to you my daughter, Finduilas."

She smiled to him, and bowed before him, "My lord."

He bowed his head in return, "My lady."

_That _was_ his voice…_

Denethor then took her hand in his own, brought it to his lips and kissed it gently. As he did so, she watched him intently, not taking her eyes from his expression. His face was stern and noble, worn with years for one of his age. He was extremely handsome.

Denethor peeked up at her, and smiled faintly, "My lady, what is said of you is true."

She cocked her head to this side, and he answered her look, "You are indeed most fair."

Finduilas lowered her head slightly, and she blushed, causing Denethor to softly laugh. Hearing this laughter, she could not help but look at him again, and she smiled, which he did also in return.

Their hands were still joined, and always he searched her youthful face, seeing in it a life and vibrancy that was as refreshing as the sea air itself. Finduilas shyly stole glances of him, and each time she did so, she would hold her glimpse longer.

"Well, it appears you will not hold my daughter's lateness against her," Adrahil broke in, "Often she misses greeting important visitors, for she has her head buried in a book."

_She likes books then, _Denethor thought.

Denethor glanced from Adrahil to Finduilas, an inquisitive smile on his face, as she replied, "Well, father, you have none but yourself to blame for that. It is you I take after."

She looked to Denethor and smiled.

"Indeed, you speak the truth, my dear," Adrahil laughed, "but why stand we here when a feast awaits us? Come, my lord," he said, placing his hand to Denethor's back, "The dining hall is just this way."

"Alas that my son cannot be here," Adrahil continued, leading the noble lord down the hall. But Denethor turned back, as if he had forgotten something.

Denethor turned, speaking courteously to Finduilas, "My lady? May I escort you?" Denethor offered out his arm to her. Taking the few steps to him, she accepted it, and they made their way to the feast prepared for them.

"Well, my lord," Adrahil began, "tell me of your journey. It was safe I trust?"

"It was," he nodded. "Though I am most glad indeed that it has ended," he replied, looking to Finduilas.

"How long of a journey was it, my lord?" she asked.

"Seven days, though it could have been travelled in six. I am afraid I found the scenery too distracting," he replied, laughing slightly.

"I have never seen the countryside between Dol Amroth and Minas Tirith," Adrahil interjected. "How does it differ, my lord?"

"Well…the further south and west we travelled, the more level the ground became. The ground is more solid nearer Minas Tirith, due to its proximity to the mountains. The closer to Dol Amroth, the more the alike to sand the ground is. There are fewer trees in the south, and the climate is warmer, even for this time of year."

"You would consider this weather warm?" Finduilas asked, surprised.

"I would, my lady. Minas Tirith is much colder than this in the winter time."

She shuddered, causing Denethor to look curiously at her, and her father explained, "If you remain with us for any amount of time, lord Denethor, you will soon discover my daughter's love for warmer weather. She has been positively _tortured _these past months." He winked to her. "It has been colder here than is usual, and thus, my poor daughter has had to rely on her books for company."

"And good company they are indeed!" she replied merrily, though half in defiance.

"Ah! Here we are," Adrahil said, gesturing to a door. "My lord," he bowed to him, allowing him to go through first, and doing so, Finduilas loosened her grip of his arm.

"Oh, no, my lady," Denethor replied. "I will see you into the room."

She smiled, "Thank you, my lord."


	3. The Lady of Dol Amroth

For the disclaimer, see the first chapter.

**Chapter Three: The Lady of Dol Amroth**

She felt a strange sensation as she entered the chamber - a presence she had never felt before. It was warm and inviting, but utterly unknown. Denethor noticed her curious expression, and reached for her hand. But before he could touch it, she drew it away from him, and he, too, recoiled.

"I am sorry, my lady," he said genuinely. She did not say a word; she merely smiled in response. Denethor sensed a worry about her that he found rather constraining - but still, his interest and intrigue did not dissipate. Something had changed about her, even in this short space of time.

It was a large, long room, a wonderfully adorned table gracing the centre of it. The table was made of solid oak, and was incredibly sturdy and thick, as if the winds of the ocean themselves had carved the timber. A fire roared in an open hearth, smoke billowing into the chimney. There was a scent of incense in the air, and the room was set for a splendid feast.

"Shall we sit down?" said Adrahil. He laughed heartily, and placed a log onto the fire. Finduilas looked to Denethor, her happiness quickly restored at the sight of its warmth.

"My Lord," she addressed him, pulling back one of the wooden chairs. Denethor smiled, happily acknowledging the action. He sat down, and Finduilas quickly milled to the opposite side of the table, where she did the same.

"Thank you kindly, my lady," he said in an appreciative tone. "And let me say, Lord Adrahil, how truly honoured I am to be welcome to your home." Adrahil raised his hand, as if to stop any further praise.

"The honour is mine, Lord Denethor," he said. "It has been long since we have had visitors from the White City." He raised his glass of wine. "To Gondor," he proclaimed. Denethor laughed, and raised his glass in return.

"To Gondor," he echoed. They toasted their glasses, and Denethor took a sip of the rich liquid. It was unlike any he had ever tasted - full of flavour, sweet, and with an exquisite aftertaste. "This is wonderful wine," he commented. "Was it made here in Dol Amroth?"

"Indeed it was," said Adrahil, pleased. He motioned to his handservant for more. Denethor looked to Finduilas. She sat with her hands in her lap, glancing down at the table. When he spoke to her, she almost jumped, as if the voice were unexpected.

"You are most privileged to live here," he said. "But as much as it would try, the sea can only imitate your beauty." She looked at him, her eyes full of wonder. Something about him was endearing to her.

_Why does he speak to me so?_

Denethor noticed her disconcertion, and worry fleeted through his own mind. "I am sorry, my lady," he said. "I hope I did not offend." She paused for a moment, and fingered a chain which hung around her neck.

"No," she said, managing an anxious smile, "no. You do not offend, my Lord."

"Come now, Finduilas," said her father, "you need not be so mysterious!" He took a sip of his wine, and savoured the lasting zest. "Ah - here is our first course!" Denethor inspected the sumptuous meal that was placed in front of him. As they began to eat, he could not help but notice the look of the lady Finduilas. Every now and again, she would glance at him, with a look of both intrigue, and more strangely, fear.

She spooned another morsel of food into her mouth, trying desperately to concentrate on the meal before her. But her eyes always diverted to him, no matter how hard she tried to tear her gaze away. As much as she tried to deny it, he fascinated her. She would watch his every move, his every intricate gesture, and each was as compelling as the next.

She knew herself how she often tired of things. She would frequently close a book mid-chapter, leave tasks unfinished, never staying in one place for long. She was a wanderer, as free as nature had deemed her. _And yet, _she thought, _why do I not tire of him?_

"That was a most excellent meal," said Denethor, taking the last sip of wine from his glass. "I humbly thank you for your services." Adrahil smiled.

"I am so glad it was to your satisfaction!" he said, his laugh full of glee. "I do not know how our food compares to the splendours in Minas Tirith."

"It surpasses them," Denethor remarked, with a friendly nod. Adrahil beamed in response, taking his comment to heart. Finduilas knew how proud her father was of his coastal heritage, and of the city he had come to call home. She knew also that this pride had been passed onto her. Not once had she ever thought of leaving these shores; she knew them too well, and they were as dear to her as her family.

"So," said Adrahil, sitting back in his chair, "how long do you plan on staying in Dol Amroth?" Denethor held the stem of his wine glass, swivelling it in his fingers. He looked to be contemplating the answer.

"I am not sure," he said eventually. He placed the glass onto the table. "Now that I have come to see its beauty, I may stay longer than I originally anticipated." He studied the glass. In it he could see his reflection, his eyes glinting back at him. He then looked to Adrahil, "with your permission, my Lord."

"You need not ask for it," said Adrahil, smiling. "The Lords of Gondor are always welcome here." It was clear that he had already taken a liking to this man, and Denethor was secretly glad. His father would not have him on bad terms with the people of Gondor, and Denethor knew this more than anything.

"Thank you," he said humbly. Adrahil stood from his chair, and motioned to the living area. Denethor could see the glow of the great fire from here, its flames basking the walls in orange light.

"Now," said Adrahil, "would you care to join me?" Denethor was not one to refuse this offer, and promptly accepted. Adrahil turned to his daughter. "And you, Finduilas?" he asked. "Will you be coming?"

Finduilas froze. Her face twisted into an expression of great anxiety, and Denethor saw her hands slowly clenching, as if withdrawing from the question. He felt his heart begin to race.

_Is it I? _he asked himself, worry fleeting through his mind. _Is it I she fears?_

Finduilas took a deep breath, and yet said nothing. She lowered her head to the floor, as if to avoid catching his glance.

"No," she said, her voice shallow and breathless. "No. I am fine, father." With a last quick look at Denethor, she turned, and fled from the room. Denethor could hear her footsteps echoing from the long, wooden staircase – each step seemed in rhythm with the beating of his own heart. He wanted to go after her. He wanted to reach out, and stop her from leaving – but he knew it was not his place to decide.

"Do not trouble yourself over her," came the voice of Adrahil. "It is not your fault she behaves this way, my Lord. It is how the world made her." Denethor forced a smile. As Adrahil led him into the next room, his thoughts were only on one thing…

_What did I do wrong?_

--------------------------------------

Denethor lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, his hands folded upon his chest. A gentle breeze drifted in through the window to his right, the smell of the sea carried on the winter wind. The heavy curtains billowed slightly, and a fire glowed in the great open hearth at his feet, filling the room with warmth. He laid in contentment, having just completed a sumptuous morning meal with lord Adrahil and his daughter…his daughter…

He sighed.

No matter how hard he tried, Denethor could not banish her from his mind. She intrigued him, and it was undeniable that she was a great beauty…but there was something else about her that held him captive…what it was exactly, he did not know. Her eyes…he smiled to himself. He would be content to probe their intricacies for the rest of his life if he did none else. Behind them he felt a warmth and a tenderness, that were he to live a thousand lives of men, he was certain he still would not have tasted the depths of it.

But he was not blind. He had seen how she had reacted when he reached for her hand, the flurry in her eyes when he had commented on her beauty, and yet…at other times, she had smiled to him, spoken to him warmly, and he had seen her gazing at him on several occasions at the dinner table.

"My lady," he said quietly to himself, looking down at his hands, still folded upon his chest, "You give me hope…and just as you give it, you take it quickly away. You confuse me…I know not what to think." He paused a moment, straightening his long robe and continued, "How can I reach you? Shall I compliment you? Offer you a gift? Tell me what I can do to win your good fortune."

Just then, Denethor heard a merry laugh from the next room. He smiled to himself, recognising it immediately. He turned his head back, looking up toward the wall from behind whence it came, and smiled fondly.

"Imrahil!" she called down to him, leaning out her window.

_Her brother? Her brother has returned?_

"Finduilas!" he returned, "My dear sister! It is good to hear your voice!"

"It is good to hear _yours_! Will you need help?"

"Help, when?"

"Once you reach the stables! Would you permit your older sister to help you?"

He laughed, "I would, my dear sister, but you look so warm and content even from this distance. Stay, I tell you! You and I can talk later!"

"Very well," she laughed. "Don't forget!"

"I won't!" he shouted in return.

Denethor heard the neigh of a horse as it was spurred onward through the gate.

_Her brother has returned…_Denethor thought a moment, and his eyes lit up, a thought occurring to him. _I shall go and assist him. It would provide the perfect opportunity to learn more about the Lady Finduilas. I would like that very much indeed. _

Denethor rose from his bed, and walking over to his wardrobe removed a rich, purple cloak, clasping it about his shoulders. He also took his dark, leather riding gloves, slipping them on as well. _Yes…this will be a good opportunity. All will be well. You shall…._

He halted, listening carefully. A smile grew on his face as he realised what he was hearing. Finduilas was singing. Her voice was clear and gentle, soothing and beautiful, and it filled him with utter delight and joy.

He laughed happily to himself, smiling all the while, and despite her past actions toward him, Denethor felt a surge of optimism that he would hear that voice many more times to come. _I hope it so._


	4. Seeking Warmth

For the disclaimer, see the first chapter.

A/N: We'd like to say a big thank you to Denethor's Angel for being the first reviewer of our story! We really appreciate your comments, and hope you enjoy what's to come!

**Chapter Four: Seeking Warmth**

"My lord!" A servant called, "Do you wish for any help?"

"No thank you," he called over his shoulder, leading his horse by the reins. "I am quite well! You must go inside and take shelter! This weather is just beastly!"

A cold, fierce wind whipped furiously through the valley, thrusting about fragments of straw and grains of sand. It was particularly cold for Dol Amroth, and those living there felt the winter's harsh bite, its icy fangs digging deep into their bones.

Arriving at the stables, Imrahil patted his horse's flank.

"Ah, Bara, my friend, we have had quite the long journey, haven't we?" The horse grunted, shaking its head, and Imrahil laughed faintly, "Yes...but we are home now." He leaned down, grasping a pail of oats, and began to feed him from his hand. He watched as the gentle beast ate, and smiled. "There now," he said after some time. "Enough!" He removed the oats and dusted off his gloves. Holding Bara's head in his hands, he scolded, "Enough for you! You are spoiled as it is!"

Gently patting him one last time, Imrahil turned away. To his surprise, he beheld someone staring at him. He was tall, with dark hair and deep eyes. He looked at him with a curious expression, for he had never seen anyone so richly dressed.

Imrahil removed his gloves, keeping his eyes set upon the strange man who now approached him. "And who might you be?" he said, an inquisitive look on his face.

He bowed his head to him, "Denethor of Minas Tirith."

"My lord, forgive me," he replied, bowing his head in return. "Had I known, I would not have -"

"Think nothing of it." He smiled, now standing in front of him. "I had heard you arrived and thought I could assist you."

"Thank you, my lord. You are most kind."

Imrahil began to remove the saddle from his steed, Denethor loosening the straps on the beast's side.

"How was your journey?"

"Quite good for this time of year, my lord, thank you. Long, and tiresome, however. It is good to be home," he smiled.

Imrahil looked a young man of about twenty. He was very tall, alike to his father, his hair and eyes the same. He shared the spirit of Adrahil and Finduilas, and it brought a smile to Denethor's face.

"And what brings you to see us, my lord?" Imrahil asked, removing the saddle from his horse.

Denethor followed him, his hands clasped behind his back, "Refreshment and nothing more. I have never visited Dol Amroth before, so I thought it the perfect excuse."

He laughed slightly, placing down the saddle, and rising to his feet, he brushed his hands together.

"Good then! We are glad to have you here." He returned to his horse, and grasping a brush, began to rub it forcefully down the horse's spine. "If I know my family," he called over his shoulder, causing Denethor to join him, "you were welcomed in grand fashion last night!"

"I was indeed," he laughed. "Your father is a gracious host, and your sister a lovely hostess."

Imrahil chuckled to himself, shaking his head, "Oh, Finduilas…"

Denethor's brow contorted, wondering what it was he found so amusing. From the moment he had seen her, she had intrigued him greatly, and he relished the chance to find out more about her. Not one to pass this opportunity by, Denethor inquired with his glance as to what was so humorous.

Imrahil noticed, and smiled.

"My sister…she is like none else."

"What do you mean?" Denethor asked, smiling faintly.

Imrahil turned to him, resting his arm across the horse's back. He cast his glance downward, his look thoughtful.

"She can be so like a child, sometimes, I can scarcely believe it. I have never seen someone who can be so carefree in all of my life. Tragedy does not strike her, it seems. She seems immune to it." He looked into the noble lord's face. "It is as if she is protected from it - untouched." He paused a moment, looking down to the ground. "She amazes me." He began to laugh, allowing his mind to reminisce. "When we were children, she would take me down to the sea-side and tell me stories of the first people to come over the sea. None of which," he said, an amused look on his face, "were based in historical fact." They both laughed, and he continued, "But it is her greatest passion."

"The sea?"

He nodded, "Never will Finduilas love anything more."

Both were silent for sometime, and looking up to Denethor, Imrahil broke the silence.

"I am sorry, my lord. I did not mean to tire you with-"

"Oh, no!" Denethor interrupted. "I am quite enjoying it." He paused for a moment. "You love your sister."

"I do," Imrahil smiled. "Very much."

After a brief period of silence, Denethor peered up at him and continued, gently rubbing the horse's head, "I trust your sister has had many suitors. She is a lovely woman."

Imrahil laughed, "Not Finduilas."

"And why not?" Denethor inquired, half-pleased and rather surprised.

"She has no need of any," he replied plainly.

Surely there have been some!" Denethor replied. "A man would be mad not to-"

Imrahil stared at him, Denethor having stopped short of finishing his sentence. Imrahil saw in him a great longing in his eyes, a deep desire that wished to be fulfilled, and his gentle glance melted away.

Denethor opened his mouth a little, and spoke barely above a whisper, "-to not…"

_You knave. You are old enough to be her father._

Sensing what he was about to say, Imrahil broke in, "She has had no suitors, my lord, because she has not wanted them." His voice was cold and unwelcoming. "She has no need…she is perfectly content as she is…now."

----------------------------

Denethor sat in his room, gazing out of the window. It was strangely cold, and he could feel the winter's air gnawing at his face. He cupped his hands together, and blew hot air into his palms. The heat did not last for long. Sighing, he took his cloak, and wrapped it around him. He had wanted solitude. _But here_, he thought wryly, _solitude comes not with warmth_. He rose from his seat, and headed for the drawing room, knowing a warm fire would greet him.

But that was not the only thing that greeted him that night. He knocked carefully on the wooden door, making sure nobody was inside. When he heard no response, he turned the handle. The door opened with an ancient creak, and swung freely on its hinges. The room was large, and decorated with a certain grandeur. Books lined the shelves, seemingly stacked in endless rows, and what windows there were were pinned with shutters. But Denethor did not look upon these. He saw only what his eyes were transfixed upon – the lady Finduilas.

"My lady!" he exclaimed, quite taken aback by the shock. "I am sorry to disturb you. I did not hear you-" He paused, unsure of what to say. She gave him a curious smile.

"No," she said calmly, "it is quite alright, my Lord." She held in her arms a book, her hand gently resting against one of the pages, as if she had been tracing the words. "I was merely reading."

"Then please, do not let me disturb you," said Denethor. He took a seat near the fire, and basked in its warmth. Holding out his palms, he felt them absorb the heat they had most dearly needed. He wanted desperately to look at her, but felt obliged to leave her be.

Finduilas fingered the leaf of the book. Since Denethor had entered, she had not turned a page. She was too deep, too consumed in thought to concentrate. _Did he know I was here? _she thought. _No…he couldn't have… _She gritted her teeth, bitterly angry with herself. _Should I think of him so?_

No matter how hard he tried, Denethor could not help but notice her glance in the corner of his eye. It was as if she was constantly watching, an omnipresent figure, never ceasing to find interest in his every move. But he did not feel uncomfortable – in fact, he felt calmed by her intrigue. He longed for her to watch him forever, to never take her eyes from his face.

_And yet my feelings are wrong, _he thought bitterly. _But then again, _he wondered, _how can feelings truly be wrong? They are not bounded by the restrictions of our rules, nor the walls of our cities…they transcend beyond those, to our hearts. _His eyes widened. _And yet, I still feel this!_

Finduilas desperately wanted to forget him, to bury him to the back of her mind, and imagine he had never entered the gates of Dol Amroth. But what was done was done, and his image was imprinted firmly in her mind. Something about him enticed her, and yet something about him was more terrifying to her than anything she had ever experienced.

They sat there for a few moments in total silence, each knowing not what to say to the other. Several times Denethor ventured to speak, but nothing came from his lips, as dearly as he would have wished. He did not know what to say to this woman, and yet he knew everything he wanted to say.

Suddenly, and almost intuitively, he noticed a chess board, resting on a wonderfully-carved wardrobe by the fire. The board was laden with intricately-formed figurines; warriors on horseback, the foot soldiers of Gondor, and most detailed of all, the King, adorned with his finely-made crown. Denethor gazed at it, wondering what sculptor could work such precision with his own hands.

Seizing this opportune moment, he turned to Finduilas, and found his eyes meeting hers. She seemed to study his expression, searching for any sign of what he might be thinking. He offered out his hand.

"My lady," he said, motioning to the board, "would you care for a game?" She gently closed her book, and laid it aside.

"With all due respects, my Lord," she answered, "I have never been taught."

"Well now!" exclaimed Denethor, in the manner he would to a comrade, "I can think of no better time." He smiled.

She shuffled slightly in her chair. Denethor sensed her nervousness. "If you do not wish to, my lady," he said, careful with his words, "then do not feel pressured." Finduilas felt a smile creep onto her face, and she knew that it was utterly genuine. Her emotions flowed through her, and she felt free to their will.

"I shall play," she said, "but only if you promise to teach me, my Lord." He laughed a hearty laugh.

"That I shall do," he said, taking the board, and placing it between them. "I have no doubt that you shall be a most excellent player." Flashing a smile, he began to explain to her the pieces. She looked on with wonder, taking in everything he said, as if it would never be heard again.

"And this," he said, reaching for an ivory piece that stood tall above the rest, "is the playing piece of the Steward." He handed it to her, and she took it in her palm, examining it closely.

"Is this not the Horn?" she asked, gesturing towards the dull-white carving. She knew she had seen it somewhere before. Against the figure of the Steward was engraved a magnificent war-horn, every exquisite detail remaining intact.

"Why yes!" Denethor laughed, noticing the Horn for the first time. He took his own piece, and ran his finger against the carving, thinking to himself how beautiful the miniature was, how alike to the genuine object. "The Horn of Gondor. To be passed to the eldest son."

"I do not doubt he will be glad of it," she said, smiling, "it is a most wondrous item." He echoed her smile, and took her praise gladly. He was enormously proud of his homeland, and such comments only inflated his pride.

Denethor made the first move.

It was not long before the board was cleared. Denethor had rounded up the pawns, taken the Queen, and the two white Steward pieces lay at his side, one upright, one toppled. But this was no competitive game, and both had enjoyed their fill.

"An excellent game, my lady," said Denethor, returning the figures to their rightful places. When he positioned the Steward, Finduilas halted him.

"My lord," she said, "please, take it." She took the figure in her own hand, and passed it back into his palm. Denethor held it incredulously.

"Are you sure, my lady?" he asked, almost unable to accept this generous gift. She gave him a warm smile, and slowly nodded, "I am."


	5. The Piece of the Steward

For the disclaimer, see the first chapter.

**Chapter 5: The Piece of the Steward**

"Will Lord Denethor be joining us?" Adrahil inquired. "I have not seen him since this morning." The table was set for a wonderful feast, and foods of all descriptions lay temptingly before them.

"I saw him leave earlier," replied Imrahil, his tone one of disinterest. "He took his horse." Adrahil rubbed his chin and grunted.

"Well, we cannot let this food go to waste," he concluded. "I am sure he is well. Let us not trouble ourselves over his business." He glanced to Finduilas. "My dear, come, eat! Lord Denethor will come to no harm."

Finduilas wrung her hands in the folds of her dress. _How had he known I was thinking of him?_ She held her palms before her, and saw that they were shaking, and beaded with sweat. _Am I that obvious? Am I a mirror to my own emotions? _She picked up her fork and raised the first morsel of food to her mouth.

Imrahil sat opposite her, and he had been watching. He cupped his wine glass in his hand, and caught its rich scent wafting toward him. _Oh Finduilas_, he said inwardly, craving to speak the words aloud, _you are gravely misguided…_

He took a sip of the red liquid and savoured the taste, swilling the wine in his mouth before swallowing, the flavours still clinging to his taste buds.

"Finduilas," he said, his mouth gasping for air after his long drink, "what troubles you? I can assure you, father is right. We should enjoy this night in solitude." Finduilas looked blankly at him.

"Nothing troubles me, brother," she said quietly. She took another bite of food and chewed it contemplatively, avoiding Imrahil's glance. However, this did not deter him.

"I can see it in your eyes, Finduilas," he said, as kindly as he could muster. "Sister, the Lord Denethor is just that – our Lord, and a mere guest in our city."

"Imrahil," he heard his father say, "that is enough." Imrahil scowled. _She must listen. She _will _listen. I shall make her see._ Adrahil gave him a disapproving stare, clearing his throat, "I shall not have you speak of Lord Denethor so. He is Gondor's finest."

Finduilas looked to her father. _Does he defend him for Gondor's sake, or for my own?_ The reality dawned upon her that he might know – that he might realise how she felt about him. She turned away, hastily gripping the stem of her glass, burying her face in its deep and shining bowl. She wished that it would hide her face forever – that the blood-coloured wine would eternally mask the red that rose in her cheeks.

"That may be," Imrahil said acidly, "that may be." He could not help but watch his sister as she hid her face behind the glass, its curvature morphing and distorting her reflected cheek into a bulbous formation both hideous and intriguing. He took another sip of wine.

They sat there for several minutes, eating in silence. Finduilas kept her head down to the table, only raising her glance when she wished for more bread or drink. _Please,_ she begged secretly, _please do not speak of him again._ She was fortunate, for nobody did. Imrahil sat in deep musing, engaged in his own reflections. Adrahil gulped down glasses of wine, the liquid overflowing in his mirth. _This is my family_, she thought. _This is home; I need no others._

"That was most sumptuous," Adrahil remarked, mopping up his last piece of meat in the rich sauce that covered his plate. "I daresay I shall need no more until morning!" He smiled a warm smile. Finduilas smiled in return; her father's joy was always infectious, and he had a wondrous aura about him that surrounded and engulfed anyone nearby.

"Shall we retire, father?" suggested Imrahil, glass in hand. Adrahil nodded in reply.

"Come, Imrahil," he said, rising from his chair. "Let us play a game of chess."

------------------------------

He halted his horse with a quick tug of the reins. The beast whinnied and stamped its forefeet clumsily on the uneven ground. The sand was soft, and felt as if it might collapse and engulf them at any minute. Denethor was swift to dismount. He took a breath of the fresh sea air. _So pleasing to the senses, just as she tells me._ Leaving his horse to graze by the dunes, he wandered toward the sea, the light of the moon illuminating his path.

The tide was high, and he did not need to walk far. He reached down and touched the water. It was cold, and grains of sand and sediment danced around his fingers, stuck to his skin. Heading for higher ground, he found a sheltered spot where the wind seemed not to reach, and knelt down unto it.

For a while he merely watched the sea, the waves breaking gently onto the shore, their beautiful crests spilling over in a flurry of white, gem-like droplets. _It is so stunning_, he thought to himself. _So pure. I can see now why it entices her so_. He felt entirely calm, the rhythmic wave-sounds echoing through his ears.

He sighed happily, looking down at his palm, in which rested the ivory-coloured Steward piece Finduilas had given him. The moonlight glimmered from its pale surface, and as he turned it in his fingers, deep shadows cast themselves upon the Steward's stony face. One moment the figure seemed to smile, the next to frown. It was as if, Denethor mused, the piece had a life and spirit all its own. He stood it upright in the sand, facing out to sea.

It was then that a great rush of white water came forth, the signal of an ever-encroaching tide. Denethor laughed in surprise, and quickly got to his feet, brushing the sand from his tunic. He began to climb his way toward the dunes, when a thought entered his mind – _the chess piece!_

His eyes turned. He scanned the water. _Oh please, do not let it be lost!_ A tiny glint caught his eye. _There._ The figure had been toppled over, and was hurriedly being swept away, swept into the cold, icy depths of the sea. He rushed toward it, and plunged his hand into the foam, scooping up the sand-encrusted Steward and trapping it in his fist.

"You shall never escape my sight," he said, thoughtfully fingering the carving. He brought the piece to his chest.

------------------------------

Night had fallen over Dol Amroth, and the starry hosts were out in all of their shining magnificence. Finduilas had stopped, and looked out a window in the long corridor - a window overlooking the sea. She watched the waves roll peacefully upon the shore, and then slowly retreat back into the waves.

_Where is he? He has been gone since the morn. _

The last time Finduilas had seen Lord Denethor had been the night before, in the very room to which they were now headed. She smiled slightly as she thought back on it.

"_Is this not the Horn?"_

"_Why yes! The Horn of Gondor. To be passed to the eldest son."_

"Finduilas?" Adrahil had turned and now stared at his daughter, but received no reply. Her glance was still outward to the sea, and she fingered the golden chain that always hung from her neck. "Finduilas!"

She started as one who had been suddenly pushed from behind, her eyes wide, her pulse racing.

Adrahil looked at her in amazement and laughed gently. "Finduilas! Come now!"

"Forgive me, father," she blushed, casting her glance to the floor.

"My dear," he extended his hand to her. "It is quite alright. Come, will you join us in the drawing room? I would very much enjoy your company, as I am sure your brother would." He turned his glance to his son.

Finduilas looked to her brother and met his gaze. He forced a smile and her heart sank. _He knows…he knows…and he hates me._

"Finduilas, my dear." Adrahil placed his arm around his daughter and brought her close to his side. "My daughter, what is it? You play with your chain - what troubles you?"

She hung her head, unable to answer. "Nothing, father."

"Come now," he said sweetly. "Is it Lord Denethor that you worry for?"

She did not move.

Guessing this to be what troubled her, he spoke on. "Well, my dear, I'm certain he is quite well. He came to us for solitude, and I am sure he is finding it! But now," he peeked down into her face, "I am to have the honour of defeating your brother at a game of chess. Do not tell me my favourite daughter shall not be witness," he said with a wink.

This brought a gentle smile to her face, though she could not look at her brother.

Imrahil forced a smile himself, and his glance softened. _Perhaps I am wrong. I have no evidence that she cares for him…Finduilas _does_ have a large heart. Larger than anyone's I know. Perhaps it is genuine concern for her lord…and nothing more. _

He smiled, more like himself, and extended his hand. "Come, sister. Please do join us. I cannot tell you how sorely I have missed you. I would be very glad of your company tonight."

"You see?" Adrahil gestured to his son with his hand, his voice full of merriment. "Come now, Finduilas. You cannot leave us without a fair lady to grace our presence."

She finally raised her eyes, and met her brother's. He smiled to her – the gentle, kind smile she had always known – and she felt as though a great burden had been taken from her shoulders.

"Very well." She lowered her head, abashed. "I shall stay."

"Excellent!" their father joyfully exclaimed. He so enjoyed having his children with him. Nothing brought him greater contentment or peace.

As they entered the room, Finduilas' eyes fell immediately upon the chess board, lying in its usual spot atop the wardrobe. She smiled slightly to herself, thinking back upon the previous night. _It has been a great while since I have enjoyed myself so. _

She quickly made her way to a shelf, fingering the spines of old books, many hundreds of years old. She finally selected a volume of poetry, and sat down upon the great couch.

In the meantime, Adrahil and his son sat down, with the chess board, by the fire.

"Ah, my son, I do hope you shall not take your loss too gravely."

Imrahil peeked up at him and said wryly, "Do not be so quick, father. You forget…I have one advantage you have not."

"And what is that?"

"Youth."

The two turned when they heard a stifled laugh to their left. Finduilas sat nearby, still reading, though with her hand to her mouth, a large smile underneath.

"Why, Finduilas! Do you find your brother amusing?" Adrahil said, feigning disapproval. "I shall have my children speak respectfully to me!"

Finduilas looked up to her father and smiled a large smile, one that she could not contain. Adrahil smiled to his daughter in return, and gave her a quick wink. He turned to face his son, and to his surprise met a peculiar look.

Imrahil's brow was creased in confusion, "Father, have you played a game recently?"

Adrahil grunted, "What do you mean?"

"A piece is missing."

"What? Well, which piece is it?"

"The Steward."

Finduilas started.

Adrahil was perplexed. "That is most peculiar indeed! I have not played a game since you left…I know not how this piece could be lost!"

"Finduilas," Imrahil began, "do you know what could have happened to it? Have you seen it?"

For a moment she knew not how to reply, but then she spoke plainly, "Lord Denethor and I played a game yester eve."

"Finduilas," Adrahil said in genuine surprise, "you know not how to play!"

"He taught me," she bashfully replied.

Seeing the red in his sister's cheeks, Imrahil rose from his chair, his suspicion growing with each moment. "And what became of this missing piece?"

Adrahil looked at his son in wonder, but Finduilas sat shaking, the book still open in her lap. She lowered her head. "I…I…I gave it to him."

"What?!" Imrahil snapped. He stepped forward toward her. "Finduilas! Do you know what he must have thought? Did you lose your senses?"

"Imrahil, enough!" Adrahil interjected. "Finduilas did no wrong!"

"I thought naught of it, brother; it did not carry any meaning!"

"For _you,_ Finduilas! What of him? What might _he_ be thinking?"

"Imrahil, enough, I said!" Adrahil boomed, his voice increasingly angry. "Leave your sister be!"

She could bear it no longer. Finduilas threw the book from her lap and fled the room, tears rising in her eyes as she ran. How could he speak to her so? How could her brother be so harsh? Never had he spoken to her in such a way, never before in her life. Why now? And over so small a thing…she could not understand it.

_It meant nothing…it meant nothing…_she reassured herself. _I did no wrong…_her brow wrinkled in sorrow as she placed her hand to her mouth. _But why did Imrahil speak to me so? Why? Why was he so harsh?_

Finduilas ran hastily down the long corridor, her weeping reaching its peak. She let out a murmur of anguish, and dashed quickly up the stairs, disappearing into the shadows.

------------------------------

A sigh.

_What could be troubling her? It pains me to see her so. Should I go to her?_

A step.

_No…no…leave her be… you cannot…_

"My lord?"

A servant stood staring at him, a questioning look in his eye. "Lord Denethor?" he continued, seeing the look on his face, "Is everything alright?"

Denenthor smiled faintly, emerging from his hiding place. Having heard Finduilas coming, he had taken refuge behind a stone wall. As much as he wished to go to her and comfort her, his heart told him otherwise - though why, he knew not.

"Yes…yes…" he replied, casting a hasty glance to the staircase.

"Well," the servant began tentatively, "if you should require anything"…

"Of course," Denethor smiled, though it too was full of haste. "I shall let you know. Thank you."

The servant bowed low to him, and left the noble lord alone. An ill feeling rose in his stomach as he thought of her…her weeping. It was a sight he had not wanted to see, and one he never wished to see again.


	6. Farewell to the Sea

For the disclaimer, see the first chapter.

Thanks to Denethor's Angel for continuously reviewing our fic! :) Your reviews mean a lot to us!

**Chapter Six: Farewell to the Sea**

And so the days and nights passed, and with each cycle of the sun and moon, Denethor became increasingly accustomed to life in Dol Amroth. He greatly regretted it when it came time for him to return to Minas Tirith, for the White City was so distant, so far from his thoughts and dreams.

"I have never seen such an ethereal night," Denethor remarked, glass in hand, gazing out at the statues adorning the courtyard. Beyond them he could see the sea, its waves continuously pounding the shoreline in a display of its might and power. He would miss its roar. There was something about the repetitiveness of that sound, that continuous harmony that calmed him, and made him forget his troubles. The moon was a bright circle, for it was a cloudless night, and the stars shone upon them like the Valar's blessings.

Adrahil smiled. "The sea is an enchantress," he said. He took another sip of wine and straightened his tunic. "I hope your visit has been to your satisfaction." He cleared his throat. "I know I speak for all of us when I say it has been a great honour to have had you stay."

Denethor could not help but notice Imrahil shoot his father a glance, but took no heed of its meaning.

"It is more than I could have ever have hoped to find," he said, sighing, resting his arm against the balcony.

"I wish you a good journey home, my lord," said Imrahil, bowing his head. Denethor nodded in thanks.

"If the weather remains this clear, we should have few problems," he said optimistically. His eyes turned to the stars. "We should arrive at Minas Tirith before long."

There was a moment of silence then. Denethor took a cautious sip of wine and looked back out to the courtyard. His eyes fixed on a statue of a woman, pouring a jug of water into a large, stone basin. The stream of water trickled out endlessly, glimmering and glittering in the light of the moon.

The voice startled him.

"My lord," said Finduilas, "will this be your only visit?" Denethor turned to face her, a curious smile on his face. She sat on a bench surrounded by ivy, her head to the ground. _Why does she ask me this?_

"I do not know as of yet, my lady," he answered courteously. "It would please me greatly to return." Her head remained lowered.

"As it would please us!" Adrahil exclaimed, raising his glass. "You are always welcome here, my lord."

It was then that Finduilas spoke.

"Please, excuse me," she said meekly. Adrahil approached her, but she brushed past him, lightly stepped across the balcony, and was gone. Denethor could only watch as she disappeared from his sight.

------------------------------------

_Come…come now…read…concentrate…but that's just it…you _can't _concentrate…you have turned page after page, but you read not the words. It is as though you see right through them. _She placed her hand to her brow in frustration. _Why am I so? My mind is a flurry and cannot rest…_

Finduilas placed her book down, the book she had been trying to read for the past hour. The task had yet escaped her. Night had fallen long ago, and a deep star-spangled sky was displayed in the heavens above. Finduilas cast her gaze up to them. _The stars seem at such peace…they are so quiet…a void to sadness, to what goes on in the world below. Why can't I be amongst the stars? _She looked back down to the long velvet cushion, and fingered the soft fabric. She smiled faintly to herself. _Do not be so silly, Finduilas. What a silly wish…you need not refuge. It is your own soul you need to see to. _She thought a moment, looking upward to the painting above her fireplace. A kind man stood over a beautiful young woman, smiling lovingly to her. The woman's gaze was cast to the child she held in her arms, an infant, not a year old. Finduilas smiled. _Perhaps I should speak with father…though perhaps not….oh, I know not what to do! _Frustrated, she buried her head in her hands, and finally, she spoke aloud to herself.

"Enough of this foolishness," she spoke through gritted teeth. "You must keep control of your senses, else you will go mad. It is nothing…you worry too much. Is there anything that upsets you? No, there is nothing…" She paused, and pounded her clenched fist to her forehead, answering her own statement, "Save for this constant spinning in my head…" Finduilas looked up to her bed, and upon seeing it her eyes felt as though they would close any moment. _Sleep…that is all that I need…sleep…_

Rising wearily from her window seat, she made her way to her wardrobe, and began to undo the laces on the back of her dress. She thought she heard footsteps coming down the corridor, but supposed them to be that of a soldier and paid them no heed.

But they were not.

Finduilas jumped, startled, and placed her hand to her chest. Someone had knocked upon her door. She hastily laced up the back of her dress as well as she was able, and making her way to the door, she carefully opened it.

"Lord Denethor!"

It was indeed him. He bowed his head to her courteously, and offered her a gentle smile.

"My lady, I know 'tis late, but might I have a word with you?"

_Why would he wish to speak with me? _"Of course, my lord, do come in."

He nodded to her and walked into the room, and when she had closed the door, he turned to look at her and faintly smiled. He looked so solemn! What could be bringing him to her at this hour? He stood staring down to the rich carpet that lay before the fire, his hands folded behind his back.

He began to gently pat his hands together in thought.

_Why does he do so? It rattles my nerves….I wish he would stop._

He cast his gaze upward to her. He examined her face for some time, and though she wished to look away, she found she could not. His presence held her captive.

Looking down to the two armchairs that lay in front of the fire, he motioned to them.

"Shall we sit?"

Finduilas forced a smile, and slowly walked over to where he stood, and coming to him, he again extended his hand, directing her to be seated before him.

_Why do I feel as though I shall hear a death sentence? _

She placed her hands down beside her, clutching the seat.

Her actions did not go unnoticed. "My lady, please be at ease…" she looked up to Denethor's face, and he continued on, "I have come only for my own interests."

Finduilas smiled, relieved. She placed her hand to her chest, and sighed, "My lord, I thought I had offended you unknowingly."

"You are not the one in offense, lady Finduilas."

_What? Did my ears deceive me? _"My lord?"

"My lady, tomorrow I depart for the White City." He looked up into her eyes. "But I cannot go until my soul has peace."

"Peace, my lord? Of what do you speak?"

"My lady," he spoke tentatively, "have I offended you?"

She did not know how to answer.

"My lord, forgive me, but I know not of what you speak."

Denethor swallowed, looking aside in embarrassment. _Now I must tell her…_

"My lady…you have given me reason to believe I have offended you. Oft have been occasions where you have fled the room when I entered, left a meal early…" _Fool! Look at her! You make her blush! _Finduilas bowed her head, and looked as though she might begin to weep. "My lady, please…" He reached out his hand, placing it atop hers. "Please, I do not intend to upset you…it is _I_ who has offended…" He smiled reassuringly to her. "All I wanted was to rectify my wrong-doing before leaving tomorrow…and here I am now, asking to know what I did to offend you so." She looked into his eyes and he smiled again to her, "I want to make it right."

All she could do was stare at him. She spoke no words for quite some time.

Denethor took her hands in his. "My lady…you and I are friends, are we not?"

_Friends? He calls me his friend? _"Yes, my lord."

"Then do speak truthfully with me. I do not want to leave and this not be mended. I cannot have the offense of my gentle hostess on my heart."

"But, my lord…you have not offended me…"

His look was one of genuine surprise. "My lady, are you certain?"

"Yes, my lord…you carry no offense." She lowered her head. "It is _I _who should apologize for my behaviour. I do hope I didn't–"

"Now hush, my lady." She looked to his face, and he smiled warmly to her. "I was not offended in the slightest, only worried I had blackened my reputation in _your_ eyes. I cannot have that…our cities must be on good terms. Your father is a kind man, but I fear his wrath if I offend his daughter!"

This brought a smile to her face, one which she tried to hide. Denethor laughed softly, and gently squeezed her hands. "It is obvious that he loves you very much."

She smiled. "He does."

Denethor smiled to her and released his loose grip. He slowly rose, and as he did, Finduilas watched him. _My mind is calm_,she thought in utter amazement. _Why is it calm now? _

She finally cast her gaze upward to him, though his back was turned. He gazed at something on the wall. Just then, he turned to her.

"My lady?"

"Yes, my lord?"

"Is this not your father?"

Finduilas rose curiously, and coming to stand beside him, he directed her gaze to the painting which hung over the hearth.

She smiled to him, "Yes, my lord. It is."

Denethor leaned forward, looking at it more closely. "How alike to your brother he looks!"

"Yes, he resembles him a great deal as he was in his youth."

He slowly turned his head to her, and made a motion with his hand, "And this lovely woman?"

Denethor could sense the sorrow in her face upon hearing the question. "My mother," she softly replied.

Turning to look to her, Denethor smiled faintly. "You resemble her, my lady."

"Thank you," she whispered.

Finduilas looked down to his feet, trying desperately to stem the tears that rose in her eyes. She blinked them away, and wiped them with her hand. She quickly raised her head when she heard Denethor's gentle laugh.

She was met by his merry smile, and she smiled herself.

"I can guess who this child is," he said knowingly, turning from the picture.

"Yes, my lord…that is I."

"What life in those eyes!" he exclaimed, examining her image on the canvas. Turning to her, he met her eyes, and he smiled faintly, "It is still there."

_Why does he speak to me so? _Finduilas knew not what to make of his compliments. She almost wished he would not do so, for it perplexed her.

As it was often, all she could bring herself to do was smile.

"Well," Denethor whispered quietly, "I shall leave you in peace." He stole a hasty glance of her face as he made his way to the door. Finduilas quickly followed him, and opened it before him, and smiled. He nodded to her. "I thank you again, my lady, for allowing me to speak with you. You have lifted a great burden from my soul."

"Oh, my lord, think naught of it. I am sorry that you worried so."

He smiled, "Good night, my lady Finduilas."

"Good night to you, Lord Denethor."


End file.
